“She was his potchke, his fleutchke, his notchke, his motchke, his everything that the speech of St. Botolphs left unexpressed. She was his little, little squirrel.”

“She was nothing. He had everything. And for what little it was worth, he was embarrassed by his own strength.”

“She stares at me for a moment, and then she bursts out laughing. “You haven’t seen his perfect little wife and his perfect little girls. Believe me, Oliver, I’m not the great love of his life, the one he’ll never forget.”“You are to me,” I say.”

“The most romantic things a man can do for a woman are the little things that let her know that she's on his mind and in his heart.”

“He sucked in a harsh breath when she pressed her mouth to his, and she was fascinated by the way his eyes darkened and glittered with sexual hunger when their tongues melded together. It was cold, the temperature dropping little by little. It didn’t matter. Not when she could press her bare breasts against his chest to warm them, when his hands slid up her back and his arms were so engulfing and so hot she was encased in perfect heat.”

“She was all the dreams he'd lost at dawn-- dreams of everything he hadn't understood he needed until now. She was his playmate, his confidante, the lover who made his blood rush. She was the mother of his children and the companion of his old age. She was the joy of his heart.”